


Fantôme

by Faiz



Series: Ghosts 'n Stuff [2]
Category: Daft Punk
Genre: Death, Gen, Ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:10:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1431379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faiz/pseuds/Faiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guy-Man had met Thomas as a ghost, but Thomas refused to say how he died.</p><p>Because to him, his death was the greatest shame he had ever had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fantôme

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Monodes](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Monodes).



> Yes, I made a prequel to the fic Ghostboy. I actually really adore this AU (thank you to Monodes from tumblr for thinking of it!) And it won't be the last fic of this universe, so look out for more!

His breath came out in puffs of white smoke as he walked down the darkened street away from his home. He had to have been at least walking for 10 minutes, and the area around him was familiar. It was the same path that he always took to go downtown. He had no idea why he wanted to go there, and at this time at night. If he were a bit older then maybe he’d be going clubbing or drinking with friends, but he wasn’t even old enough to drive yet.

He just clutched his belongings that he had thrown into a plastic bag and his backpack as he continued to trudge on to the brightened streets of the downtown area of the little town where he lived. He tried to ignore the tears threatening to fall down his cheeks as the sounds of people talking were beginning to invade his ears. He shivered, hoping that he could sit down and have a coffee at his favorite cafe. It was fairly cold outside, and his favorite threadbare green scarf was doing little to protect him from the cold. 

He paused and rifled through his backpack and let out a sigh. He had forgotten a jacket. He couldn’t go back now either. It’d just prove his parents right. He sped up his pace and was now walking past people who were out for a night of fun. He felt relieved when he saw an open table at his favorite cafe and quickly ordered a coffee. He was situated just so that he’d be able to look out the window and watch people go by. A man was in the corner, strumming his guitar and warbling a sad tune about a guy whose girlfriend died or something. He didn’t pay attention to the lyrics, but he let the notes of the guitar wash over him as he sipped his coffee and watched more people go by on the street.

He knew he had to be thinking about where he was going to be staying for tonight, because it was much too cold to even think about sleeping on a bench in the park. He counted up the money that he had in his wallet and figured that he could chance staying a night in the hotel. He just had to hope that his parents wouldn’t find him quickly to haul him back home and force him to submit to their wishes. 

He sighed as he took another sip of his piping hot coffee. He could be happy and warm at home if he just did what his parents told him to. His Maman would have attempted to shoo him to bed, but then let him stay up to have hot cocoa with her and listen to the radio. She loved music, so Thomas never understood how she could be so against him trying to have a career in music. She and Papa kept telling him that he couldn’t earn a living on just playing his piano and singing, and it made him feel like all those evenings learning how to dance with his Maman were all lies. How could they even listen to music if all they were going to do is tell their only son that he couldn’t even attempt to make a career out of it? Both of them had even complimented him on his ability to play the piano.

But no, every single time the topic was brought up his Papa told him that there was no way his son was going to go into music and end up like the street musicians making money out of their guitar case. He said that Thomas was going to go to law school or business school so he could make himself a decent living and make his parents proud. When Thomas would confront his Maman she would just say ‘listen to your Papa’ and that was the end of it.

The conversation was so old and worn out that this night had been the last straw for him. He had argued harder than ever before, trying to get his parents to see that it wasn’t a fruitless effort and that he could do something with his life using music. His Papa had yelled at him, fiercely. Maman started to cry, saying things like ‘we only want what’s best for you’ and ‘please don’t be difficult.’ But it was hard to not be difficult, when all he had ever wanted to do in life was to play music. In school anything about law or business bored him to tears, but in anything involving music he’d florioush. 

Maybe it was just the foolish impulses of a teenager, but Thomas had immediately stormed up to his room and grabbed some sets of clothing, a few of his music books, and other objects that he thought were precious to him and put them all in his schoolbag and a plastic bag that he had found under his bed before he snuck out his window and away from home. He wanted to live his life the way he wanted, and not the way his parents dictated. And to him, if that meant running away, so be it. Sure, he didn’t have his piano anymore, he couldn’t have carried that with him if he tried. But he could get a job, find a tiny place, and earn enough money to get a new piano, or maybe even learn to play another instrument. 

“You’re out awfully late, aren’t you?” Thomas had nearly choked on the last of his coffee when the man who had been playing the guitar had walked up to him and pulled up a chair near him. “Are you going somewhere?”

Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He kicked his plastic bag and backpack closer to himself. 

“It’s not really a yes or no question. You can’t be ‘maybe’ going somewhere.” The man persisted.

“I’m just going away from home. That’s all.”

“Now why would you do that? It’s quite cold outside, I’m sure you’d prefer to be cosy at home with your maman and papa.”

Thomas avoided eye contact. “I would, but they keep telling me that I can’t be a musician. And that’s all I really want in the world. So if they can’t handle me doing what I want, then I’ll leave. Which...I did.”

The man mulled over what Thomas had said and took a sip of his own drink. It smelled like it had alcohol in it. “Well, that’s no good. You and your parents have to be on good terms, because if you leave like this you’ll only have guilt heavy on your heart. I find that guilt isn’t good to have when you make music.”

Thomas looked up at him finally. “But I can’t go back.”

“Yes you can! Of course you can! They’re your family. No matter what they’re just trying to do what’s best for you.”

Thomas felt angry for some reason. This man of all men should at least understand what he was feeling. He was a musician himself, and why would Thomas want to even go back to his stupid parents who never listened to what he had to say? He pushed his chair away from the table and grabbed his belongings from where he had left them and walked towards the exit.

“You’d better be going home, boy!” The man called out.

“Whatever.” Thomas muttered.

The cold nipped his face as he walked out again into the streets. He pulled his scarf tighter around his. There were tears trailing down his cheeks that he hadn’t even noticed, and he angrily rubbed them away as he stalked down the street, swinging his plastic bag almost madly as he went. His vision was blurred as fresh tears came pouring in. He was angry. At his parents, and at himself. He was being selfish, he knew it. But he just wanted his maman and papa to understand what he wanted. He just wanted to be heard. But he also wanted to go home, to hug his maman and to make jokes with his papa. To turn the radio on and playfully waltz along with his maman as she told him that he would make a very handsome husband one day. That his wife would be lucky to have a man like him.

He cursed as he crossed the road and his plastic bag finally tore from the pressure that was being put on it. He got down onto his knees as he scooped up his clothes and other random items and tried to make a makeshift bag out of one of his shirts. And just as he was standing up a girl from across the other side of the road had screamed in horror.

“TRUCK!”

Thomas first looked at her in confusion, before turning his head sharply and seeing a large truck only a few feet away from him. His first instinct was to cling more tightly on his things, and he whimpered the names of his Maman and Papa. No sound came out as the front of the truck suddenly made impact with his body. 

He was flying.

He could only remember feeling his body screaming in pain before everything faded into nothingness.

It felt like he had just woken up from a terrifying nightmare when he opened his eyes. His body felt strange, and numb. He couldn’t feel any pain, but he couldn’t feel anything else either. He only had the vague memories of the truck speeding towards him and his own body hitting the pavement. He sat up, realizing that he was in the hospital. His Maman and Papa were right there, on the left of his bed. His Maman was crying, sobbing actually. His Papa was making no sounds either, but he could see tears glistening on his eyes and cheeks as he looked downcast at Thomas. Why were they so sad? He was here, wasn’t he? His Maman was clutching Thomas’s belongings, and she began speaking in between sobs.

“H-He was so young...H-He had so much potential. Why did God have to take away our son so soon?”

Take away?

Thomas then looked back at his pillow and screamed.

He was staring at his own body lying down on the starchy white sheets of the hospital. His face was pale and gaunt, the only color from the bruises and cuts on his face. There was no heart monitor in sight. He looked down at his own hands and saw only semi-transparent wisps of his hands. When he swung himself off the bed he found no need to even stand on the ground. His feet floated just above it. He wasn’t reflecting off of anything.

He looked back at his parents, crying over his dead body. And he wanted to cry. He wanted to cry so badly for his parents, and to tell them that he was okay, that he wasn’t dead at all. But he was dead...He was dead. His parents couldn’t see him. No one could see him. He tried to cry but found he couldn’t. The emotions that were welling up inside him weren’t doing anything. He just ached. He didn’t know how he could ache without a body, but he just did.

He reached his hand out in the direction of his parents, trying to will himself to get closer. But they wouldn’t see him. They wouldn’t feel his hand on their shoulder. Their son is dead. Their son is still lying down on the bed, with no life left in him.

He was a shame.

He was a damn shame to his family.

He turned around, and practically flew through the doorway of the hospital and sped through the halls. Even though he knew no one would see him or feel him, he still weaved through the crowd as the pain in his own self intensified. 

He kept going and going until he was in front of his own house, until he was inside, and until he was inside his own room. He went all the way into the corner, almost shocking himself when his body didn’t go through like he thought he would. He made himself as small as he could, curling his fragile body into a ball right in the corner of his room behind the curtain of his window. Even if he were alive, no one could see him.

The pain welled up, and even though no tears for formed, he sobbed.


End file.
